Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

Joanna Chambers

Published by Joanna Chambers, 2018.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Further Reading: Unnatural

About the Author

Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

**

LYSANDER WINTERBOURNE appears to lead a charmed life. Handsome, amiable, and a renowned sportsman, he is the darling of London society. As far as Adam Freeman is concerned though, Lysander is just another spoiled aristocrat.

A wealthy mill owner, Adam has no time for the frivolous world of the ton, but when his younger brother becomes engaged to Althea Winterbourne, he reluctantly agrees to be introduced to society–with the Winterbourne clan’s golden boy as his guide.

Resigning himself to a few days of boredom, Adam is surprised to learn that there is much more to Lysander than his perfect surface. But will Adam have the courage to introduce Lysander Winterbourne to his own secret self?

Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

**

COPYRIGHT © 2018 JOANNA Chambers

Cover art: Natasha Snow

Published by Joanna Chambers

ISBN: 978-1-9997091-8-1

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments or organisations is completely coincidental.

**

PLEASE DO NOT HARM the author’s livelihood by using file-sharing sites.

Chapter 1

“The toast of the ladies this season is the dashing Mr. W—. As well as being as handsome as Narcissus, the young gentleman is an acknowledged whip and a swordsman of considerable renown. Furthermore, it has been recently reported that, when Mr. W—— was informed that his sister’s name had been impugned by another gentleman, he challenged the offender to a bout of pugilism in Hyde Park and blackened the fellow’s eyes. Those who are observant may have noted the absence of one Lord E—— from drawing rooms this past fortnight . . .

Sadly. Mr. W—— is a man of little fortune. His improvident father has reportedly all but emptied the family coffers, which may explain why Mr. W——’s sister has just accepted the hand of the wealthy Mr. F——, lately of Manchester. Indeed, it was that very match that was the subject of the said Lord E——’s highly improper remarks and the cause of his recent inclemency . . .”

The London Lady, April 1821 

**

THE DAY ON WHICH LYSANDER Winterbourne’s life changed forever was, for the most part, a very ordinary one.

In the morning, he rose early and went for a bruising ride with his friend, Lord Perry Cavendish. He’d been stuck in Town for months, and it was good to get out into the country. Thankfully it wouldn’t be for much longer. In fact, he planned to be on his way to Winterbourne Abbey on the morrow, and to avoid coming back to Town for a good long while.  

After a hearty gallop, Lysander and Perry partook of kippers and ale in their favourite inn, then drove Perry’s curricle out along the Brighton Road to watch a boxing match being held in an open field.

A quantity of ale was consumed—mainly by Perry—and they were very lucky he didn’t overturn his curricle on the way back to Town. By the time Lysander rolled back home, it was almost six o’clock.

“His Lordship has asked that you attend him in Her Ladyship’s private drawing room,” Quincy, his father’s humourless butler, informed Lysander. He delivered the news in a doom-laden tone, as though the purpose of Lysander’s father’s request was to deliver some terrible news, but Lysander had known old Quince for too many years to worry much about that.

When he entered the sitting room, it was to find his mother, Lady Jemima, reclining on a chaise longue, reading a novel, while his father sat, somewhat incongruously, at his wife’s dainty escritoire, reading a letter, a frown on his face.

They both looked up at Lysander’s entrance.

Lady Jemima, who at one-and-fifty was still beautiful, albeit somewhat rounder than the willowy subject of the portrait on the wall behind her, smiled warmly at him. He was her favourite child, the youngest of the family. Lord Winterbourne hadn’t worn quite so well as his wife. Too many good dinners were stretching the limits of his plum-coloured waistcoat, and the blue eyes Lysander had inherited were rheumy from too many brandy-fuelled late nights at the tables.

“Lysander, darling,” Lady Jemima said, putting down her book. An inveterately lazy woman, she made no move to rise but merely held her hands out, and Lysander stepped forward to take them, bending his head to press a quick kiss to each set of fine knuckles.

“Mama,” he said. “You look lovely today.”

It wasn’t a lie, and besides, she loved compliments. His words made her beam with pleasure.

“Thank you, darling. Have you had a nice day? How is dear little Perry? Did he mention his mother? It’s simply years since I’ve seen Annabelle Cavendish.”

Lysander chuckled. “‘Dear little Perry’ is six foot two and weighs fourteen stone, Mama. And it’s difficult to get more than a grunt out of him, never mind news of his mother.”

Lady Jemima looked surprised. “Really? It doesn’t seem so very long since the two of you nearly set the stables at Winterbourne Abbey on fire.”

“For goodness sake, Mimi,” Lord Winterbourne sighed. “That was ten years ago.”

Lady Jemima looked comically surprised.

“Quince told me you wanted to talk to me,” Lysander said to the earl, taking the chair next to the escritoire and stretching out his slim legs. “Was it something in particular?”

“Ah,” said Lord Winterbourne. He cleared his throat. “Yes, it is rather.”

He sounded so serious that Lysander was struck by a sudden worry that this was going to be a repeat of their discussion from last week. Recently his father had taken it into his head that Lysander needed to be settled in life. His eldest brother Alexander would inherit the title—for what it was worth these days—and Hector was in the army. Lysander was the only one of the Winterbourne boys who lacked a neatly mapped-out future—though not for want of ideas on his part. He wanted nothing more than to help manage the estate he’d grown up on and had firmly told his father so last week.

In response, the earl had raised the prospect of Lysander taking orders in the Church of England. When Lysander had protested that he had no calling whatsoever, his father had waved his objections away—who needed a vocation to join the Church of England? Especially when one’s cousin Henry (once removed) was a bishop? But Lysander had argued and begged and cajoled and pleaded until, eventually, his father had reluctantly agreed to allow Lysander to return to Winterbourne Abbey and to try out working with Mr. Holmes, the estate manager. And finally, tomorrow, Lysander was due to leave.

“I need your assistance with something,” the earl said. “It won’t take more than a day or two.”

Lysander’s immediate reaction to those words was a wary sort of relief. This didn’t sound like a repeat of their last conversation at any rate.

“Oh yes?”

“It’s nothing difficult,” the earl went on in an airy tone. “I’d just like you to spend a day or two with Mr. Freeman. Show him around Town a little. Help him get a bit more comfortable in Society.”

For a moment, Lysander just stared at his father, trying to make sense of what the man had just said.

“Simon?” he asked, puzzled. “Why would he need showing around?”

Simon Freeman had become engaged to Lysander’s sister Althea two months before. The earl had been part horrified, part delighted by the match. On the one hand, as the son of a mill owner, Simon Freeman was tainted by commerce and was a humiliatingly low match for Lord Winterbourne’s second daughter—the earldom was four hundred years old after all, and Lysander’s mother’s ancestors had come to England with William the Conqueror. On the other hand, Simon’s family was outrageously wealthy, and the earl needed money desperately. Before Simon had come along, he’d even been considering selling the Abbey.

It wasn’t going to be a one-sided bargain. Simon had political ambitions. Marriage into the Winterbourne clan would considerably smooth his entry to the inner circles of political power.

“No, not Simon.” The earl sighed impatiently. “He hardly needs anyone to show him around—no, I mean his brother, Adam Freeman. He’s come to Town for a few weeks.” The earl grimaced. “Unfortunately, he’s staying on till May for the wedding.”

Lysander blinked, trying to remember what he’d heard about Adam Freeman. He was Simon’s older brother and the head of the Freeman family. It was Adam who held the purse strings, not Simon. Simon might be independently wealthy thanks to a generous settlement in his late father’s will, but Adam was the one who had taken over the running of his father’s businesses and who continued to grow the Freeman empire. And crucially, it was Adam who’d bought out the mortgages over the earl’s estates and cleared his towering pile of debts. The earl had complained bitterly of the unpleasant afternoon he’d recently had to spend with the man, going through them all.

“Insufferable money-grubber,” he’d said. “You should’ve seen how much he enjoyed rubbing my nose in it.”

And now he wanted Lysander to squire the man around?

“Well?” the earl prompted, interrupting Lysander’s tumbling thoughts.

“I thought we were agreed that I could go back to the Abbey for a few months?” Lysander answered carefully. “I was planning on leaving tomorrow. Holmes and I were going to sit down together on Friday to discuss some of the alterations that are needed to the dairy and what can be done about improving the tenants’ cottages—now that we’ve got some funds, I mean.”

Funds from Adam Freeman, that was.

The earl’s lips thinned with displeasure. “Well, that was before Simon asked that you show his brother around. Keeping Freeman happy is rather more important than mending a few cottages, Lysander.” He turned back to the papers on the desk and began to fiddle with them. “Besides, on reflection, I think it best that you—well, step back from estate business.”

For a few long beats, Lysander just stared at his father in silence, his heart beginning to pound, a sick feeling growing in his stomach.

“What do you mean?” he said at last, hating the break he heard in his own voice. The unmistakable edge of disappointment. “Father, I—I don’t understand. I thought we agreed that I would work with Holmes for a few months, start learning how to manage the estate—”

“Yes, well, I’ve been reflecting on that, and I’ve come to the view that I should never have agreed to such a plan,” the earl said. He kept his gaze averted, refusing to meet Lysander’s eyes. “Ultimately, the Abbey’s going to Alexander. He’s the one who needs to learn to look after it.”

“But he’s not interested!”

Alexander was just like their father—he’d squander everything at the tables, and it would all go to rack and ruin if someone else didn’t manage the place—preferably someone with the ability to put their foot down with Alexander from time to time.

“Nevertheless,” the earl bit out, “Alexander is—”

“I don’t want to be in charge, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lysander interrupted desperately. He put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, trying to catch his father’s eye, but the earl kept his gaze stubbornly averted. “I don’t mind just managing the estate for Alexander!”

“It’s not that,” the earl snapped. “The point is this: your brother is the heir. He will deal with the estate as he sees fit. Your path in life will be different. I’ve spoken with Henry—”

“I told you I don’t want to join the church!”

“Yes, you said so. Nevertheless, I’ve spoken to Henry and invited him to dine with us next week. I want you to hear him out.” The earl paused, then added flatly, “It’s a respectable, proper career for a younger son.”

“And it’ll improve your marriage prospects, darling,” the countess put in. “I would so like to see you married to a nice young lady.”

Lysander felt like he couldn’t breathe. He tugged at the neck of his cravat. “Mother,” he said. “Please. You know how I feel about this.”

Lady Jemima made a sympathetic pout. “Oh, darling,” she said. “Yes, you always did love being outdoors, but there’s no reason you couldn’t ask for a position in some pretty village somewhere! Some of the houses the Church provides are really very sizeable—just the thing for a young married couple. Why, the old vicarage near the Abbey must have five bedchambers at least!”

“That’s not what I meant—” Lysander began, frustrated. So typical of his mother. Thinking of what she wanted for him, rather than what would make him happy. As if he wanted to be married!

“I know, dearest,” she said, her tone dripping with sympathy. “You’ve always liked mucking about with horses and mud, haven’t you? Just like when you were a little boy. But you see, you can’t be a boy forever . . .”

Mucking about with horses and mud. That was what she thought he meant.

She’d never understand. No more than the earl did. In their minds, the world was fixed. Immutable. As was his place in it.

Distantly, Lysander realised that he’d been expecting this. Waiting for it. He’d known during his conversation with the earl last week that his father wasn’t happy with what they’d agreed.  

This had always been coming. He was just as trapped as he’d always been. Dependent on a father who couldn’t stay away from the gaming tables. Fit for nothing but whatever occupation his father might obtain for him by grace and favour.

“So,” the earl said briskly, interrupting Lysander’s thoughts. “Can I rely on you to show Freeman around? Simon did particularly ask that it be you. He probably thinks that if people believe you like Mr. Freeman, they might warm to him a little more themselves.” He gave a humourless laugh. “As if you’d ever respect a man like that. He practically reeks of his filthy mills.”

Lysander couldn’t bring himself even to look at his father or acknowledge his vitriolic remarks.  

“Well, Lysander?” the earl prompted sharply. “Will you do it? God knows, we’ll probably have to go back to the man with a begging bowl soon enough. I’ve just had a letter from Holmes to say the roof on the west wing of the Abbey is leaking badly.”

A small, disloyal voice in Lysander’s head whispered that if the earl hadn’t squandered the family fortunes at the gaming tables and had instead mended the roof of the west wing ten years ago when it had started leaking, they wouldn’t have been having this conversation now. But he didn’t say anything. There was no point—it wasn’t as though anything he said would change the earl’s mind.

“All right,” he said flatly, not really caring anymore. “I’ll do it.”

It wasn’t as though he would have any better use for his time, was it?

The earl nodded, pleased at last.

“Good man,” he said heartily. “I won’t pretend it’ll be an easy few days—Freeman’s a thoroughly disagreeable fellow, but if anyone can manage him, it’s you. You always could charm the birds from the trees, my boy.”

Chapter 2

Adam Freeman scowled at the front door of the Winterbourne townhouse. It had recently been painted in bright bottle green. A lion’s head door knocker gleamed at him with brassy impudence.

Adam wondered if Lord Winterbourne had actually paid the painter yet. Another sheaf of bills had been delivered to him yesterday, some of them shockingly old and for tragically small amounts—bills that should have been given to him already. Did the earl ever think of the tradesmen and suppliers who waited months on end for payment? Did he spare a thought for their wives and children? Did it occur to him that his actions might force some of them into a debtors’ prison?

What manner of man lived like a king and didn’t pay his bills?

Lord Winterbourne’s approach to life was entirely at odds with how Adam had been raised. His father would be turning—whirling—in his grave right now, to see his sons cultivating such a man.

Damn Simon and his ambitions. Simon and his “If I want to change things, I need to be accepted by these people.”

Sometimes it seemed to Adam that Simon was changing before his very eyes, turning into the sort of man he’d always professed to despise. Was that what compromise did to a man? And if so, what did that say about Adam himself, who had come here today to spend the day with Lysander Winterbourne, the youngest—and arguably most useless—of the whole sorry Winterbourne clan?

Firming his lips, Adam took a hold of the brass lion head and delivered three sharp raps. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing the lugubrious countenance of Lord Winterbourne’s miserable butler.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “His Lordship and Mr. Winterbourne are expecting you. Please follow me.”

The butler’s invitation was delivered in accents that could only be described as tragic—Adam half expected to be shown into a room containing Lysander Winterbourne on his deathbed, the earl weeping at his side, but instead the unsmiling servant led him to a bright and sunny drawing room.

The earl was pacing in front of the fireplace, wearing a hole in the rug. He looked up at Adam’s entrance with an expression Adam had come to loathe. A flicker of dislike, quickly disguised by a fawning expression that turned his stomach. He walked forward to greet Adam.

“Mr. Freeman,” he said. “How good to see you again. May I introduce my son?”

It was only then that Adam noticed the second occupant of the room. He’d been sitting in the corner, reading a newspaper, but now he was standing and tossing his reading material aside, stepping forward with a ready smile to greet Adam.

“Lysander Winterbourne,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Freeman.”

His elegantly cut coat was dark blue, his neatly tailored waistcoat and trousers fawn. The starched white linen about his throat was tied in a complicated arrangement that somehow didn’t make him look in the least bit dandyish. He looked altogether . . . perfect. The sole bit of untidiness about him was a single unruly lock of golden hair that flopped over his forehead, and even that only served to make him more appealing. He was the very picture of easy English privilege.

And looking at him made Adam’s cock stiffen uncomfortably in his breeches.

Adam had no choice but to take Winterbourne’s hand. He’d removed his gloves as he followed the butler down the corridor—he hated wearing the damn things—but now he wished he’d kept them on. He felt stupidly aware of the warmth of Winterbourne’s skin, the pleasant strength of the man’s grip.

Adam pressed his lips together and tried to lock his wayward reaction to Winterbourne away, forcing himself to give the man a curt nod.

“Winterbourne.”

Winterbourne’s smile faltered a little. Their hands fell apart, returning to their respective sides, and a brief awkward silence descended.

The earl was the first to break it. “I gather you’re going to be staying in town for a little while, Freeman?”

Adam nodded. “Till after the wedding,” he said.

“Simon thought it might be nice—if it’s not too boring for you—if Lysander showed you around Town a little. Introduced you to some more people, that sort of thing.”

The earl was smiling like a damn fool, a hopeful, ingratiating look on his face that didn’t quite mask his lingering resentment towards Adam. Adam felt like telling him in no uncertain terms that he had no wish to meet another single member of the bloody aristocracy, thank you very much, but he didn’t. Simon had pleaded with him to make the effort.

“Please try, Adam. Just this once. After the wedding, you’ll never need to bother again.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why Simon wanted him to bother now. He’d offered to stay away altogether, but for all Simon’s complaints about Adam’s scowling countenance, he seemed determined that Adam should not only be at the wedding, but that he should take a prominent part in it.

“Who else would I have stand at my side on the most important day of my life than my own brother?”

And that was all it took, apparently, for Adam to give way.

“I’m sure it won’t be boring at all,” he replied dutifully. In fact, he was quite sure it would be more boring than he could possibly imagine. He turned his attention to the son. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Winterbourne?”

The perfect English gentleman cleared his throat.

“Well,” he began, “I thought we could pay some calls this afternoon, if you’re agreeable?”

Calls. Yes, Adam remembered how well the last ones had gone, with the collected cream of Society all looking at him and Simon like a couple of talking dogs. Lovely.

He forced himself to smile. His smile was a poor thing—tight and insincere—but it was the best he could do in the circumstances. “Whatever you think, Winterbourne. I’m in your hands.”

Winterbourne’s cheeks pinked. “Ah, excellent,” he said. “I’ve—ah, also taken the liberty of asking Lady Prentice if I might take you as my guest to a ball she’s hosting this evening. She was only too happy to have another gentleman guest.”

Adam hated balls above all things. “How kind,” he said woodenly. “Thank you.”

“Well,” the earl said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll let you two get on, then. It sounds like you’ve got lots to do.”

He couldn’t have made his eagerness to escape clearer. Irritation surged in Adam. The man had sent him a sheaf of bills totalling nine hundred and forty-two pounds yesterday, and now he was blatantly pawning Adam off on his son. And as pleased as Adam was to avoid spending more time in the man’s company, he resented being treated so poorly.  

“Wait a moment,” Adam said, his tone deliberately high-handed. And quite deliberately leaving off the earl’s honorific. He refused to call the man my lord. Bad enough that Adam was paying off the fool’s debts.

The earl halted mid-step. He did not look pleased. “Yes?”

“I received another packet of bills from you yesterday,” Adam said. “Which was something of a surprise. I thought I made it clear we were to go through everything on Monday.”

The earl’s face flamed with what looked to be mingled anger and mortification. “Well, there were a few I missed. My apologies”—he didn’t sound the least bit sorry—“I thought we had an understanding.”

“Our understanding was that the items you showed me on Monday disclosed the total sum of your debts.”

If anything, the earl’s face flamed harder, and the son looked mortified too. He glanced to the side, as though to pretend he wasn’t hearing this.

“Fine,” the earl snapped. “By all means deliver them back to me.”

“Oh, you have a thousand pounds to spare just now do you?” Adam asked, raising his eyebrows. When the earl flushed and looked away, Adam nodded. “I thought not. Well, I’m not about to let your tailor starve because you can’t manage your affairs, but there has to be a limit.” He heard the son give a slight gasp at his bluntness, but didn’t even pause. “You have until tomorrow at four o’clock to present your remaining bills to my secretary, Lord Winterbourne. Anything you pass over by then will be paid. However, let us be clear on this: that will be the end of it. You will not get a penny more from me. My brother’s happiness is important to me, but he has cost me very dearly with this match.”

The earl’s face went purple with anger, but he nodded. “Very well. Then, I’ll see to it now. Good day, Freeman.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode away, closing the door sharply behind him.

Silence.

Adam turned to look at his escort for the day. Lysander Winterbourne was staring at him, wide-eyed, and Adam wondered what the young man was thinking.

He probably thought Adam was a perfect boor. He probably thought Adam should just meekly hand his money over for Lord Winterbourne to squander for the favour of his insipid sister’s hand.

Winterbourne gave a stiff and very awkward smile.

“Shall we go?” he suggested. “I thought we might call on my sister, Lady Hazlett. You met her at the engagement ball, I’m sure?”

Adam remembered her—she was the oldest Winterbourne sibling, and although she looked rather like her younger brother, she was not beautiful, as he was.

“Very well,” he said. “If we must.”

He realised he sounded ungrateful, and for a moment—when he saw how Lysander Winterbourne’s face fell at his brusque words—he even regretted it. But the fact was, he wasn’t grateful, and for good reason.

Lysander Winterbourne would no doubt have a day or two of discomfort squiring him around. Well, it was probably the first bit of work—if you could call such a thing work—that the man had ever had to do.

Perhaps it would do a Winterbourne good to think of someone else’s preferences for once in his life.  

Chapter 3

By their fourth afternoon call, Lysander was flagging.

Simon’s brother was taciturn. He was cold and proud, and at times he bordered on being actively rude. Lysander was on tenterhooks, wondering what he might say.

Lysander already knew just how blunt the man was capable of being. To the end of his days, Lysander would never forget seeing his father scolded like a naughty schoolboy in his own drawing room. It had been a frank display of power by Freeman over the earl, and it had provoked a mix of responses in Lysander. Shock, of course, and outrage. And other, more troubling feelings he didn’t care to think about.

Since Freeman made little effort to be amiable during their calls, Lysander felt obliged to be twice as charming as usual. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that his efforts were wasted. They were on their fourth visit now, and after several hours of introducing his reluctant charge to people he’d known for years, Lysander had to admit that it was becoming clear to him why Freeman remained so very tight-lipped and grim.

It was impossible to miss the incredulous looks that came their way, the muttering as they approached. Even worse were the openly snide remarks about the vulgarity of commerce. Most mortifying of all, when Lysander had introduced Freeman to his great aunt, Lady Beresford, the old witch had pursed her thin lips, averted her gaze and offered the man two fingers to shake, a calculated insult. Lysander had wanted to die. 

Lysander could just imagine what they’d be saying after he and Freeman left each house. They’d put on a show of pitying Lysander for having to put up with a presumptuous social climber and agree the man was insufferable. They’d probably say the same sort of things Lysander’s own father had.

“He practically reeks of his filthy mills.”

Right now, Lysander and Freeman were on opposite sides of the room. Freeman stood near the fireplace, a silent and barely tolerated bystander in a group of four gentlemen. His lips were pressed together, his expression distinctly unimpressed as he listened to The Honourable Freddy Leighton braying about something or other.

Lysander wondered why on earth Freeman had agreed to this. He was clearly hating every minute. Simon might not mind being patronised and despised—Lysander had been out with him often enough to know that much—but his older brother did. Adam minded a great deal.

He simmered with hot, angry, palpable resentment.

“Your Mr. Freeman is very handsome,” a light, feminine voice said in his ear.

Lysander turned his head to see Perry’s sister standing at his shoulder. Lady Arabella Cavendish was nineteen and impishly pretty in sprigged muslin.

“He’s not my Mr. Freeman, Bella,” Lysander said in a repressive tone.

Arabella ignored him. “He looks like a hero from a novel. All brooding and serious.”

Lysander had to admit she was right. Freeman was tall, an inch or two over six feet, a hand span more than Lysander’s respectable five foot eight. Broad through the shoulders and lean hipped, he was a fine figure of a man, his clothes elegant but sober. His thick, dark hair was cut very short, hugging his well-shaped head and lending him a strong, uncompromising profile, and his sherry-brown eyes were sharply intelligent.

“Mama says he’s as rich as Croesus,” Arabella added dreamily.

“Arabella—” Lysander kept his voice low but injected a warning note. He’d known Arabella her whole life and was well aware of her tendency to speak her mind. It was the sort of trait that could result in a young lady being labelled as fast, affecting her prospects for making a decent marriage. “Your mother would have your hide if she could hear you.”

She snorted in a most unladylike way. “You should hear what she says behind closed doors. Father can’t afford another season for me after this one—they need me to marry money. Mama would tie me up in pink ribbon and send me to Mr. Freeman on a silver platter if she thought it would net me a proposal from the man, whatever his pedigree might be.”

“For God’s sake, Bella!” Lysander hissed.

“I can’t say I’d mind myself,” she went on, unrepentant. “He’s a handsome devil. I wouldn’t care about being shunned by the ton if it meant acquiring a husband who looks like that. The only admirer I’ve got at the moment is Sir Toby Edwards, and he’s sixty if he’s a day.” She sighed.

Lysander just shook his head, reluctantly amused, and let his gaze wander back to the subject of their conversation.

Freeman might be rude and blunt, but Arabella was absolutely right about him being handsome. Lysander liked the man’s sleek cap of hair. Liked too those straight, dark brows, even though they kept pulling together in a frown. Liked even more the intense amber gaze that reminded him of a bird of prey. Singular and unblinking.

“You’re staring,” Arabella murmured in his ear.

Lysander was mortified to feel a blush spreading over his face and quickly looked away.

“I wasn’t staring,” he muttered. “I was just lost in thought.”

Just then, Freeman broke away from the group of gentlemen he’d been speaking with. He walked over to Lysander and Arabella, his step decisive, lips still pressed together.

“Mr. Winterbourne,” he said when he reached them, his voice clipped. “I fear we must be wearing out our welcome. We’ve been imposing on Mrs. Dalton’s hospitality too long.”

Lysander glanced at the clock. They’d only arrived twenty minutes ago.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Let us take our leave of our hostess, then.”

A sharp little elbow dug into Lysander’s side.

“Oh, sorry”—he sent Freeman an apologetic look—“before we leave, may I present Lady Arabella Cavendish?”

Arabella smiled brightly and pronounced herself delighted to make Mr. Freeman’s acquaintance. Oh well, at least one person had been welcoming to Freeman, even if it happened to be someone who was looking for a rich husband.

No sooner had Freeman murmured a polite sentiment in response than Arabella launched into an interrogation, asking him what he thought of London and its many sights and splendours.

For a while, Freeman tolerated her attentions, answering her tumbling questions politely, but eventually he grew bored. Lysander saw it by the faint frown that appeared between his dark brows and the increasingly curt answers he gave her. Plainly, he had no interest in this passably pretty and well-bred girl. No interest in being flattered and flirted with. When he next glanced at Lysander, the cold resentment of that tawny gaze was slightly softened by an unmistakable plea.

“Sorry to interrupt, Bella,” Lysander said, “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal Mr. Freeman away now. We have another appointment that we cannot be late for.”

Arabella eyed him in a calculating way. “Is that so?” she said. “And what appointment would that be, Mr. Winterbourne?”

“With my fencing master,” Lysander said promptly. “It’s time for my weekly lesson, and Mr. Freeman is keen to meet the great Monsieur Gris.”

Later, Lysander wondered where that egregious lie had come from, but for now, all that mattered was that Arabella’s suspicious look melted away, replaced by resignation. She bid the two men a civilised farewell, and they crossed the room to take their leave of Mrs. Dalton.

Chapter 4

“Do you really have an appointment with your fencing master?” Freeman asked once they were on the street outside. It was the most the man had unbent all day, and Lysander found himself smiling ruefully.

“No, but you obviously wanted to leave, and it was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment.”

Freeman gave a short laugh, but he looked disappointed. “Pity,” he said. “I’ve heard of Gris. Going to his academy would be infinitely preferable to making another call.”

“Well,” Lysander said, thinking on his feet, “there’s no reason we can’t drop by. Monsieur Gris may have lessons on, but we could watch. Maybe even have a bout if the place isn’t too busy. Do you fence?”

Freeman blinked, seeming surprised by Lysander’s offer. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I fence. I haven’t for a while, but I’m a tolerable swordsman.”

Lysander grinned, pleased by the turn of events. “Well, good, then! Let’s go. It’s not far at all from here. A mile or so, if you don’t mind the walk?”

“I’d welcome it,” Freeman replied. “I feel like I’ve been cooped up in stuffy drawing rooms all day.”

“Excellent,” Lysander said. “Monsieur Gris’s rooms are just off Mayfair. It’s this way.” He turned on his heel and started walking, and Freeman followed, falling into step beside him.

“I appreciate this,” Freeman said after a brief silence. “It’s been a long day.”

“It’s the least I can do after subjecting to you to so many afternoon calls,” Lysander said, shrugging. Then he added lightly, “Though whether you’ll enjoy being soundly beaten remains to be seen.” 

Freeman met his sideways look with a wry smile of his own. “You think you will soundly beat me, do you?”

“It’s been said that I’m not too shabby with a blade,” Lysander replied modestly.

“Simon said you were something of a sportsman,” Freeman admitted. “But perhaps I will surprise you.” There was just the slightest edge to the man’s voice—a hint of combativeness that made Lysander’s own competitive streak prickle.

“Perhaps,” he said, and he shrugged, hinting at disbelief just to rile the man. Everyone thought Lysander Winterbourne was the most amiable man in London, but he liked to win, and he had sneaky ways of getting under his opponents’ skin.

“Perhaps you believe that fencing is a gentleman’s sport?” Freeman said. “And that a man like myself could never measure up to a gentleman’s skill?”

Lysander’s step faltered, and he stopped, right in the middle of the street. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that at all—”

Freeman stopped too, and it was only then that Lysander saw that the man’s lips were twitching.

“Were you jesting with me?” Lysander asked, astonished.

“Perhaps,” Freeman replied. He raised a teasing brow, lips curving deeply into an amused smile.

Lysander stared at him, amazed. All day, the man had been glaring and frowning, but when he smiled, he was transformed. The lines of discontent that pleated his brow smoothed out, and his golden eyes danced with merriment. He seemed younger than he had before. Carefree now.

Was this really the man who had looked down his nose at Lysander’s father earlier? Who had told the man off for not paying his tailor?

It was in that moment, looking at Adam Freeman, that Lysander finally put a name to one of the more troubling feelings that the brief, painful interview between his father and Freeman had provoked in him. It was an emotion he’d felt again this afternoon as he watched Freeman being snubbed, over and over.

Shame.

Shame over his family’s unpaid bills.

Shame over the shabby behaviour of people he’d considered friends.

“Well, I shouldn’t have blamed you if you had been serious,” he blurted out now. “Not after the treatment you’ve had today. I’d apologise if I thought it would do any good. I do apologise, in fact.”

For a long moment, Freeman just stared at Lysander. He seemed shocked, truly shocked, by Lysander’s words.

“Have I spoken out of turn?” Lysander asked. “If so—”

“No, I—” Freeman fell silent, then started again. “I was just—surprised. I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“Say what?”

“Apologise to me.”

“Weren’t you?” Somehow that made Lysander feel awful, and he found he wanted Freeman to understand exactly how sorry he was. “I was mortified this afternoon. I suppose I must have witnessed this sort of thing before—perhaps I noticed it more acutely because you were my guest. I’m very sorry you were subjected to it.”

He went to start walking again, but Freeman touched his arm, stopping him.

“Have you never attended such a gathering with Simon? I can’t imagine he’d have been treated much better than I was.”

Lysander thought about that. “Perhaps I didn’t notice so much with Simon because he didn’t seem to mind—he accepted their insults, and I think they were less awful to him because of it.” He paused, then forced himself to be honest. “They saw that you minded, and they wanted to punish you for having the presumption to feel insulted.” Lysander paused and looked away, swallowing. “I’m ashamed to be one of them.”

For a long moment, Freeman was silent. Then he said, very quietly, “Thank you, Mr. Winterbourne. That was a handsome apology, particularly considering the offence was not yours. You have made me ashamed of my own behaviour. My . . . brusqueness towards you”—he paused before adding—“and your father. I hope you will accept my apology in turn.”

Lysander smiled. His heart felt lighter already. “I will accept it with good grace, Mr. Freeman, though I think you have little to apologise for. Now, shall we repair to Monsieur Gris’s and discover who is the better swordsman?”

“By all means, Winterbourne.” Freeman smiled. “Lead on.”

***

MONSIEUR GRIS WAS A trim, silver-haired man of around fifty. He spoke excellent English, with the merest hint of a French accent. His father had been a fencing master too, and Gris had followed in his footsteps, taking over the school his father had established and adding more rooms and more students.

He specialised, he told Adam, in the more advanced students, like Lysander Winterbourne.

They were standing at the back wall together—Adam and Gris—watching Lysander and another of the fencing master’s dedicated students fight, blades flashing as they lunged and feinted and parried, their feet beating out swift, irregular rhythms on the wooden floor.

“Mr. Jessop is quite good,” the fencing master said in a low tone, “but don’t be deceived—Mr. Winterbourne is holding back considerably.” He arched a brow at Adam. “Even at half strength, he is a pure pleasure to watch though, don’t you agree? His form is beautiful. Oh, look! Did you see that croisé?”

Lysander Winterbourne’s opponent stepped back and lowered his sword, acknowledging a point, and the two men moved apart, taking up their starting positions again. Adam tracked Winterbourne with his gaze. He’d discarded his jacket, and in his skin-tight breeches and waistcoat, he was trim and handsome.

“Yes,” Adam murmured. “Beautiful form.”

The two men saluted one another with their blades and began again, and it was another dazzling display of attacks and counterattacks, swift and glittering and intent. At the end of it, Jessop accepted defeat, grimacing a little, but good-humoured enough, and offered his blade to Adam.

“Are you going to try to best him?” he asked, arching a brow.

Adam glanced at Winterbourne, who smiled at him, a slow, challenging smile that made his absurdly handsome face even more appealing.

“Come on, Freeman,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Very well,” Adam said. He didn’t take the blade from Jessop immediately. Instead he removed his coat and put it to one side, taking his time. He was conscious of the other three men watching him, mostly Winterbourne, with that devil-may-care smile of his.

After he accepted the blade, he took a few moments to learn its weight and shape, moving it from hand to hand, carrying out a few exploratory slashes and thrusts. Gris watched him, his gaze considering, but giving nothing away of his thoughts.  

“Take your positions, gentlemen,” was all he said, then simply, “En garde.”

Adam was a good swordsman, but he wasn’t as good as Winterbourne. He already knew that, just from watching him fight Jessop at half strength. He suspected too that Winterbourne was not an entirely ruthless opponent. That he would give Adam one chance at least, at the start of the bout. He would give him that chance with all the magnanimity of a man who knew himself near unbeatable.

So Adam took it.

His initial lunge was explosive, a powerful surge of strength that took Winterbourne by surprise. It gave him a half second of an advantage—less—before his blade struck the other man’s and the bout was underway.

The next few minutes were frenzied, Adam moving on pure instinct as their weapons clashed and scraped, working in opposition and in accord too. Adam knew that there were times when it was more intelligent to yield than to hold firm—knew too that the moments in a bout on which victory pivoted were not always won by brute force. But the fact was, he only knew. With Winterbourne, it was more than knowing. He understood those moments, had an instinct for how to play them, his body seeming to move almost without thought.

Adam fought hard, but he was no match for his younger opponent. As he realised the extent of that truth, his grin grew till he was laughing aloud, simply admiring Winterbourne’s skill as the man sliced effortlessly through Adam’s best swordsplay, trying to keep the bout going as long as possible for no reason other than to prolong the mad joy of it.

Winterbourne began to grin too, his face flushed with enjoyment, cornflower-blue eyes bright and happy. That unruly lock of golden hair tumbled over his forehead, making him look carefree. Tempting. Adam wanted nothing more than to throw his sword aside and take the man in his arms. Kiss him senseless till they were both panting. Instead he kept fighting. Kept thrusting and parrying till Winterbourne finally did the inevitable, landing a hit on Adam’s shoulder, the fleuret of his foil pushing bluntly into Adam’s shoulder, making the blade bend in an outrageous, glinting arc.

They both halted, panting madly, grinning at each other while Gris and Jessop laughed, applauding their appreciation.

“Extraordinare!” Gris exclaimed. “So fast! You are a well-matched pair.” He took Adam’s foil from him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You will have to come back and demonstrate again when I have more students here. There are not many who can give Monsieur Winterbourne a run for his money! I am ever struggling to find him worthy opponents.”

“He is much better than I,” Adam said, catching Winterbourne’s eye. “I cannot call myself a worthy opponent.”

“Are you joking?” Winterbourne sputtered. “You nearly overcame me in the first two seconds. I’ve never seen anything so fast in my life!”

Gris laughed. “He’s fierce,” he said, turning aside to hand the foils to Jessop. “Like a Bengal tiger.”

“I see the resemblance,” Winterbourne agreed. He looked Adam up and down, raising one provocative brow, and Christ, the look on his face—amused, admiring—it went straight to Adam’s cock.

Stupidly he shifted, seeking to disguise his body’s response. Of course, it only served to draw Winterbourne’s attention, and his gaze duly dropped, the minute widening of his eyes confirming that, yes, he had noticed. But then how he could not, given how tight Adam’s breeches were, and how much his cock had swelled?

Thank God Gris and Jessop were busy putting the equipment away, at least.

Flustered, Adam turned away, reaching for his coat and tugging it on, buttoning himself up with stiff, jerky movements. What must Winterbourne be thinking of him?

Chapter 5

“So,” Freeman said, once they were outside, “what time shall I call on you this evening for Lady Prentice’s ball?” 

He was back to being stiff and severe again, probably because of that odd moment after their bout. Lysander hadn’t been quite sure what to make of it—sometimes these things happened between men, when they fought. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

But perhaps it did?

He found himself thinking of how Freeman had looked during that spirited battle, the way he’d come to sudden, vivid life, laughing without inhibition, eyes dancing with pure enjoyment as they thrust and parried.

His smile.

It was that more than anything—more than the sight of the man’s stiff member in his tight breeches—that made Lysander’s heart speed up now. That made him suddenly reluctant to part from Freeman and risk losing that tentative connection.

“Why don’t you join me for an early dinner at my club first?”

Freeman had been consulting his pocket watch, but at Lysander’s invitation his gaze snapped up, eyes wide with astonishment—it seemed that Lysander had confounded him again.

“All right.” Freeman sounded a little surprised at his own answer. “That would be pleasant, if you’re quite sure.”

“Of course,” Lysander said easily. “It’s not far. Come on.”

It took less than ten minutes to walk there, and as they approached MacGill’s modest exterior, Lysander glanced to Freeman to gauge his reaction. MacGill’s wasn’t like White’s or Brooks’—it was primarily a sportsman’s club and quite lacking in any splendour. Most of the members were keen horsemen, and many boxed or fenced, like Lysander. When he entered the clubroom with Adam in tow, he felt obliged to warn him what that meant.  

“I hope you’re not expecting a stimulating discussion about politics,” he murmured. “The fellows here—well, they don’t talk about much beyond horseflesh and prize fights, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind that in the least,” Freeman said. “To be honest, I’d be happy to just sit and have some half-decent burgundy and an early dinner. I’m famished.”

“Very well,” Lysander said, smiling. “We’ll go straight to the dining room.”

It was early yet, and the dining room was quiet. Lysander led Freeman to a table in the corner.

They made easy, if cautious, conversation while they waited for the footman to bring their wine, Lysander telling Freeman about MacGill’s and some of its members, and Freeman offering his first impressions of the place. When the footman returned, he went through the usual ceremony of pouring the wine while reciting the various dishes the chef was offering that evening. They both ordered roast beef—Lysander purely because it was the easiest to remember. He was having difficulty concentrating on what the footman was saying when, in front of him, Freeman was lifting his glass to taste the wine, tipping back his chin to briefly expose the strong, pale column of his throat.

Lysander swallowed and thought again of the man’s unruly erection and what it might’ve meant.

It would be foolish—unforgivably stupid, in fact—to mention it. Lysander had a better sense of self-preservation than that. He’d always been prudent about such things—so much so that, at three-and-twenty, he was almost wholly inexperienced. Yet today, he was tempted. He searched his mind for a way to raise the subject without giving offence, and found none.

“Do you still intend to come to the ball?” he asked instead. “I realise this afternoon wasn’t awfully pleasant . . .”

Freeman sighed. “I promised Simon I’d attend everything you asked me to, at least for one day. And I do not give promises lightly.”

“I’ll let you off if you like,” Lysander replied, “But I’d appreciate the company in truth. I promised Melisande Prentice I’d be there. And at least there will be dancing.”

“Dancing?”

Lysander laughed at Adam’s panicked expression. “Well, of course. It’s a ball.”

“I’m afraid I do not dance.

“You don’t dance?”

“No, I can’t.”

“You can’t? Not even a quadrille?”

A slight flush crept over Freeman’s face. “I’m afraid not. I never learned.”

“But how? How can you have learned to fence and not dance?” In a way, they were similar accomplishments. Genteel skills that set one apart from the common horde.

“My father had some singular ideas. He saw purpose in fencing—a man can defend himself with a blade after all—but none in dancing.”

Lysander frowned in puzzlement. “Why should the purpose of the thing matter?”

“My father was a man of strong principles. He described himself as a practical utilitarian. Philosophically, he was a follower of Mr. Bentham—he believed the right way forward in any situation is the one that benefits the most people.”

“That not the sort of view I’d expect a man like your father to hold,” Lysander replied. “It sounds rather radical—wasn’t your father, well, awfully wealthy?” Too late he realised how rude that comment was, and his cheeks flushed with heat. “I’m sorry, that was—”

“Don’t apologise. My father was a blunt man and he’d’ve appreciated your directness.” Freeman smiled. “To answer your question, in a different life I think he may well have been a radical. He was a man of strong principles, but he was pragmatic too. His beginnings were humble, and his first priority was to make a success of himself, which he did. And he was able to do a great deal of good with his wealth, in his later years.”

“How did he make a success of himself?” Lysander asked, his curiosity sparked by the expression on Freeman’s face, the affectionate smile and the slight wistfulness there.

“Well, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith at fourteen, and then he became a journeyman mechanic in a mill, maintaining and installing machines. He was fascinated by machines and began to work on his own inventions.” Adam gave another of those wistful smiles. “Right to the end of his life, he was happiest tinkering in his workshop. And his fascination served him well—at twenty-four he invented a particular sort of valve that improved the workings of the engines on a variety of the machines at the mill. He obtained a patent for it and began to make good money. More inventions followed, and a few years later he started his own engineering firm. Then he set up a machine works, making precision parts. It was only much later that he bought his first mill.”

“I had no idea about any of that,” Lysander admitted.

“I’m not surprised,” Freeman said. “He was always spoken of as a ‘mill-owner’ but the truth is, he only bought the first mill to save it—it was the one he’d worked in when he was a young man. When he heard it was to close, he decided to buy it. Once he became involved in the industry, though, he became enthused by it—that was how he was.”

“So he bought more?”

“A few, and built his own. The last was the one at New Ryesdale. He built the mill and a whole town around it for the workers. Houses for six hundred families—good, clean houses—a church and two schools with day and evening classes, open to all.” Freeman met Lysander’s gaze. “Other mill owners told him the workers would turn it to ruins in a twelvemonth, that they were not capable of appreciating such luxuries. They were wrong.”

Lysander felt a sudden flush of shame. His own father had workers—labourers who toiled in the fields of the home farm. The last time Lysander had been back at the family estate, he’d noticed how dilapidated their cottages were. He’d raised it with the earl repeatedly, but his father had brushed his comments aside, over and over. And yesterday he’d made it plain that it was none of Lysander’s business.

“My father put the greatest value on useful things,” Freeman said. “And he did not consider dancing to be particularly useful.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “He wouldn’t have stayed more than five minutes at any of those houses you took me to this afternoon. He’d have disapproved of everyone—me included—and told them so right to their faces.” He smiled at Lysander. “And they’d’ve thought him exceedingly coarse, I’m sure.”

“He wouldn’t have disapproved of you,” Lysander said.

“Yes, he would. He’d have thought me a toad-eater.”

Lysander let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, you were no toad-eater, Mr. Freeman. The reason they were so vile to you was precisely because of that.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so. I certainly felt like one as I listened to opinions that disgusted me and said nothing to oppose them.”

“For Simon.”

Freeman sighed. “Yes, despite my better judgment.” He drank again, then refilled both of their glasses.

The footman arrived with their food then. He set down their plates, piled high with roast beef, and a silver jug of gravy. Side dishes of braised dumplings and celery. A pot of mustard and another of horseradish. Hearty food for manly appetites.

“This looks good,” Freeman said, reaching for the horseradish.

They tucked in, both hungry, and for a few minutes, silence reigned. When Lysander finally came up for air—once fully half his plate was gone—he returned to the conversation they’d abandoned. “So, you never learned to dance.”

Freeman smiled cheerfully. “No, I never did.”

“But Simon did. I’ve seen him dance at balls with Althea.”

“He took it upon himself to learn since he thought—sensibly I suppose—that as an aspiring politician, he needed to be able to conduct himself with ease in Society. For my part, I didn’t see the need—it’s not as though I have any great desire to court a young lady.”

“Why not?”

The question popped out before Lysander had thought about it. But he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. The shift in expressions on Freeman’s face—alarm, embarrassment and finally an odd sort of defiance—were too fascinating. Taken together with the incident at Monsieur Gris’s . . . well, it presented some interesting possibilities.

Freeman lifted his half-full glass and drained it. He set it down with a decisive click, took a deep breath and said firmly, “I am not looking for a wife, Winterbourne.”

Just that.

A dozen questions teemed in Lysander’s mind. What did Freeman mean? Merely that he was a confirmed bachelor? Or was there something more to his confession? Could it be that Freeman was like Lysander? That he was more interested in his own sex than the fairer variety? Lysander’s heart began to race at the thought, and his mouth grew dry. He thought of Freeman lunging at him with his blade, his muscular body taut and lean, expression concentrated, and . . . Lysander wanted him.

The wanting was like hunger, a yearning that went beyond mere desire, toppling over into pure need.

And it was that, finally, that made Lysander speak, that made him put caution to one side and utter the truth, or one truth anyway.

“I am not looking for a wife either.”

Chapter 6

Despite his hatred of dancing, and of socialising with peers of the realm, Adam found that he was practically bouncing with anticipation when he left his rented townhouse that evening for Lady Prentice’s ball.

He had parted company with Lysander Winterbourne an hour before, so they could each don their evening clothes, and now he was going to pick up Winterbourne in his carriage.

It had been a long and very strange day. Those afternoon calls had been tortuous, but they’d been worth it for what came after—first being forced to revise his opinion of Lysander Winterbourne, and then—

“I am not looking for a wife either.”

Was he reading too much into those words? Too much into the odd sincerity in Winterbourne’s frank blue gaze?

The moment had passed. They’d gone back to their dinners, both a little breathless, but it felt to Adam as though something had changed after that cautious, tentative confession. That a fragile trust was growing between them.

He hoped to God he wasn’t imagining it. It was dangerous for a man like him to bare himself to others. But today, there had been moments when he’d met Lysander Winterbourne’s gaze, and it felt like the man had seen right inside him, seen Adam. And it had made him feel as though their meeting, this day, tonight, all of it had been meant to be.

Alone in the carriage, Adam shook his head at himself. He was in danger of losing his head over Lysander Winterbourne, and the worst thing was, that admission didn’t frighten him as it should. It made him feel exhilarated and alive, excited for their next meeting.

Ah, God.

It wasn’t a long drive to the Winterbourne townhouse. As soon as the carriage halted, and before Adam’s groom could alight, the door opened and Winterbourne emerged. He must have been waiting, ready.

He tripped down the steps to the street, impossibly handsome in his evening clothes, and grinned at Adam, who was watching from the carriage window.

“Good evening,” he said, eyes dancing with merriment. “I hope you have your dancing slippers on.”

Adam opened the carriage door, waving the hovering groom back to his perch.

“Despite my inability to dance,” he said, “yes, I do. So I look the part, at least.”

Winterbourne climbed in beside him and closed the door before settling himself on the seat beside Adam.

“If I could get you alone for a while, I could teach you a few steps. Enough to stumble through one dance at least.”

It occurred to Adam that if he could get Winterbourne alone for a while, he’d be able to think of far better things to do than dancing.

“I think you should consider me a lost cause,” he said instead, lips twitching. “I am one-and-thirty, far too old to learn now.”

“Nonsense! There are men far older than you who’ve taken dancing lessons, I’m sure.”

“Ah, but not from a youth like yourself, Winterbourne.”

“I am three-and-twenty!” Winterbourne protested. “Hardly a youth.”

Adam chuckled, but privately he thought that Winterbourne was right—he was a man in his very prime. Ripe for the picking, a bright shiny fruit, tempting Adam to reach for him.

If he dared.

***

WHEN THEY FIRST ARRIVED at the ball, Lysander had no choice but to dance, firstly with Melisande and then with each member of the group of young ladies that comprised her particular friends. Once he’d performed that duty, and some more gentlemen had arrived to fill up the young ladies’ dance cards, he was able to escape further dancing obligations by pleading wretchedness over having abandoned his own guest so unforgivably.

Freeman seemed a little easier than he had during the afternoon calls. He’d fallen in with two older gentlemen, and when Lysander reached his side, they were deep in conversation about an investment that one of them had made into a tin mine in Cornwall. Nevertheless, when Freeman turned his head and saw Lysander, his sherry-brown eyes warmed with something that looked very like pleasure. It gave Lysander a heady feeling, to think that he was the cause of that look.  

Shortly after Lysander arrived, the two gentlemen wandered off in search of their wives, one of them promising to write to Freeman with details of some matter they’d discussed earlier.

“Shall we get some punch?” Lysander suggested. “I’m parched.”

Freeman readily agreed, and they skirted the edge of the ballroom floor, careful to avoid the exuberant turns of one youthful set of dancers, until they reached the refreshments table. A footman stood sentry in front of an enormous silver bowl, doling out his bounty into tiny crystal cups. At Lysander’s request, he ladled some of the pinkish liquid into two cups and passed them over with an impassive look.

They strolled away, sipping the punch, which was tepid and sweet. Lysander glanced at Adam, who was wrinkling his nose.

“Not to your taste?”

“Not really. I’d rather have something stronger.”

“Well, if you can bear another hour of this, we could respectably make our apologies and go and find you something a little more to your taste.”

“That sounds—intriguing.” Amusement gleamed in Freeman’s warm gaze, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Lysander felt a betraying heat stain his cheeks and wasn’t sure why he was blushing.

He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “We could go back to MacGill’s,” he said. “They keep a good cellar.”

Freeman caught his eye and held it. “So do I.”

For a moment, Lysander just stared at him. Was Freeman inviting Lysander to his house? His stomach lurched with mingled nerves and excitement as his mind raced as to how to respond. But already he’d paused too long. Freeman’s gaze shifted away.

“I don’t mind, though,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter where we go, so long as I don’t have to dance.”

Disappointment gripped at Lysander. He was suddenly quite sure he’d missed a fumbling attempt at . . . something. Something he’d regret letting pass him by.

“You don’t get away that easily,” he said.

Freeman glanced at him, uncertain. “Sorry?”

“Dancing,” Lysander explained. “I’m determined you’ll dance at least once before we leave. Melly told me there’s a waltz soon. Nothing could be easier than a waltz, I assure you.”

“If you think I’m about to make a fool of myself on the ballroom floor—”

“Of course not—I’ll teach you first.”

“Oh really? And where is this lesson to take place, pray tell?”

“There’s a balcony that looks out over the garden,” Lysander said. “Lady Prentice has the house locked up tight to ensure none of the young ladies get compromised, but we’ll be allowed to go out. Come on.”

He took Freeman’s punch cup from his unprotesting fingers and strode away, leaving Freeman to follow. Depositing the still-full cups on the refreshment table, he edged his way back around the ballroom to the balcony doors on the other side. An attentive footman stood in front of them, guarding against the possibility of a young lady being enticed outside by an ardent gentleman.

“We’re going to take a bit of air,” Lysander informed the footman. The servant looked faintly surprised and glanced around uncertainly. No doubt he’d been warned by his mistress that on no account was any young lady to be allowed to slip out—but since there were no young ladies asking, nor any sign of his mistress, eventually he nodded and opened one of the doors, holding it open for the two men to exit before closing it softly behind them.

It was cool outside, and the darkness was soft, the gardens below the balcony nothing more than whispering shadows. There was a little more light on the terrace, though not much. The only illumination came from the lines of candlelight limning the edges of the window drapes. It was precious little, and Lysander found he was glad of it.

He crossed the terrace and leaned over the stone balustrade, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was a cloudy night, with no sign of the moon or any stars. No one in the gardens below them. He turned and examined the windows—the last thing Freeman needed was someone spying him receiving a dance lesson. The drapes were heavy and undisturbed. In any event, it was so dark out here he doubted anyone in the ballroom could make anything out even if they did peek out.

As Lysander’s eyes became more used to the lack of light, he was able to see that, although the terrace wasn’t huge, it was long enough and wide enough for a few basic turns. Good.

Freeman joined him at the balustrade. Their sleeves brushed companionably. Lysander could sense the heat and vitality in Freeman’s body, and it made him want to move closer.

Desire threatened to break him open—just from this simple, innocent contact. And all he could think was, Was it worth it? Dared he take a risk? Dared he spill his secrets on the balcony floor?

“It’s nice out here,” Freeman said.

His voice had a deep, rich tone, and Lysander suspected he would be a good singer. A baritone, probably. He found himself wondering how that voice would sound groaning with pleasure, and had to shift to ease the sudden constriction in his breeches.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s peaceful,” he agreed. “I much prefer it to the ballroom.”

“Why do you say that?”

Lysander felt rather than saw the other man look at him. He kept his own eyes on the shadowy gardens below them.

“It reminds me of the country.”

“You prefer the country, then?”

“Infinitely. I was supposed to go back to Winterbourne Abbey today, only—” He broke off awkwardly, realising what he’d been just about to say.

Freeman was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Only you had to stay and show me around, is that it?”

“It’s been no hardship,” Lysander said truthfully. “I’ve enjoyed today a great deal.”

“But you were hoping to leave Town?” Freeman didn’t sound annoyed, only curious.

“Yes,” Lysander sighed. “If I had my way, I would live in the country. Ideally, I’d manage the Winterbourne estate. But my father—” He broke off, feeling suddenly and intensely sad. Only now did the finality of his father’s words from the day before hit him.

“Your brother is the heir. He will deal with the estate as he sees fit. Your path in life will be different.”

He would never have his dream. Another dream, perhaps, but not that one.

“I recently acquired an estate,” Freeman said, distracting him. “Edgeley Park. It was an impulsive purchase. I am not quite sure what I am going to do with it.”

Lysander turned his head. “Where is it?”

“Not far from Town actually. Buckinghamshire. A very pretty little corner of the world. Not that I’ve spent much time there yet.”

“What made you buy it?”

Freeman smiled at him. “I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps—” He broke off, laughing a little to himself.

“What?”

“It will sound whimsical, but—it had been so neglected. I rode round the estate with the agent, and everything was so dilapidated. Every wall was crumbling, every gate broken. The roofs on the buildings were falling in, for God’s sake. I felt as though it . . . needed me.” He laughed again, a little self-consciously. “Those structural things—the walls and buildings—are being put into order now, but I’m at a loss as to what to do with the land. I need to learn about farming.”

“I envy you,” Lysander said. “I can’t imagine anything more rewarding than putting an estate to rights.”

Freeman looked right at him then, his eyes searching Lysander’s face. He was so close that Lysander felt the warm gust of his breath, and somehow he knew that Freeman was seeing all his longing, all his secret pain. The things that no one else suspected when they looked at perfect, golden Lysander Winterbourne. A man who seemed to have everything. 

The sudden sound of the small eight-piece orchestra launching loudly into a new, and quite fast, piece of music made them both jump, then laugh at their shared reaction. It broke the odd spell between them, though something warm and intimate remained. They were, perhaps, a step closer to one another in their own singular dance.

“That’s a waltz,” Lysander observed.

“How do you know?”

“Oh, it’s the easiest of all to recognise from the music,” Lysander replied. “Listen. One, two, three—one, two, three—one, two, three—one, two, three—” He tapped the rhythm out against stone balustrade.

He took a step back and opened his arms.

“Come on,” he said, adding daringly, “I’ll be the woman, if you like.”

He was accustomed enough to the darkness now that he saw Freeman’s lips twitch at that remark, and his own mouth curved a little in response.

“Now there’s an offer that’s too good to pass up,” Freeman replied. He stepped forward, halting just in front of Lysander. “What do I do?”

“Stand straight, that’s right, head up. Now, take my hand.” Lysander twitched his right hand imperiously, and Freeman stepped a little closer and obediently took hold of it, his warm fingers enclosing Lysander’s. “Good. Now I place my other hand on your shoulder—”

“And what do I do with my other hand?”

Lysander tutted impatiently. “Surely you’ve at least seen someone waltz?”  

“I can’t say I’ve ever paid much attention before.”

“Well, you put your hand on my waist—”

Freeman’s hand landed on the small of Lysander’s back, firm and warm, scant inches above his arse.

“Too low,” Lysander managed, though his voice was somewhat strangled. He grabbed Freeman’s hand and moved it up till it rested in the middle of his back. “Here.”

“Now what?”

That deep, rich voice again, only this time, it gusted close to Lysander’s ear, making him shiver and hunch one pleasure-pricked shoulder.

“Now we dance,” he said. “The gentleman’s supposed to lead, of course, but you’ll have to follow me for now. You’ll be confused to start with, but then you’ll see it’s just the same few steps over and over. So—one, two, three—one, two, three—off-we-go—”

The first few minutes were an utter shambles. Freeman couldn’t seem to predict which way Lysander was going to step at all, and soon they were tripping over each other’s feet and laughing uncontrollably. After a short while, though, Freeman began to pick the simple pattern up.

“Yes!” Lysander exclaimed as they swept round in a neat circle, and Freeman unerringly set off in the right direction with the correct foot. “That’s it! You’ve got it! Keep going!”

He did, and they swirled round the terrace a few more times until, soon enough, Freeman wasn’t making any mistakes at all.

“Well done, you’ve got it,” Lysander said as the music came to a stop. He began to pull away, but Freeman resisted, drawing him even closer than before. So close that their thighs pressed together and Lysander’s mouth went dry.

He met Freeman’s gaze, and what he saw near stopped his heart. Freeman looked at him with desire and heat and honest admiration. He exposed himself fully with that look, making himself naked and vulnerable.

Perhaps Lysander’s expression was a mirror of Freeman’s, because the man’s lips curved as his gaze flitted over Lysander’s face. And then he said the impossible.

“I want to kiss you.”

Those words turned Lysander’s world on its head. Or perhaps it was just that, finally, the world had been righted, so that the impossible became possible, if only in this moment.

“Then do it,” Lysander whispered, and the mingled relief and excitement in Freeman’s gaze made his heart clench, hard.

Lysander was not particularly experienced with kissing—or anything else, truth be told—but Freeman’s lips were warm and mobile, persuasive and delicious, and when he teased at the seam of Lysander’s mouth with the tip of his tongue, Lysander felt ready to come in his breeches. Instead, he opened his mouth, welcoming the surprising intrusion of Freeman’s tongue, helpless to stop the soft groan that escaped him as the slick muscle entwined with his own.

Adam Freeman was kissing him.

Adam Freeman was kissing him, and his big, square hands were cupping Lysander’s face, his touch as gentle as any more conventional lover’s. They were kissing and—

The door to the terrace rattled.

They sprang apart, staring at one another for a brief, shocked instant before turning to lean over the balustrade again. Just two friends enjoying the cool evening air.

They greeted the group of middle-aged gentlemen who strolled out to join them a moment later, lingering to converse politely for a few minutes before they returned to the ballroom.

The chandeliers blazed with candles, banishing the soft, forgiving night, restoring normality. That kiss on the balcony might never have happened. Lysander was once again an ordinary gentleman at a ball. Here to dance with lovely young ladies and drink weak, tepid punch. The world was back on its usual axis.

Except that Adam leaned in and whispered, “How soon can we leave?”

And Lysander replied, breathlessly, “When the supper dance starts. No one will notice if we leave quietly.”

It was, as Lysander had anticipated, an easy time to escape. Their hosts were at their busiest, and the rest of the guests were either thronging the ballroom floor or going to the refreshment room early. They slipped away, collecting their coats and hats on the way out.

Once they were outside, standing on the street, Freeman looked at Lysander. “What now, then? Your club?”

Lysander shook his head, swallowing hard against the nervous lump in his throat. “How about your house? I’m told the wine cellar rivals MacGill’s . . .”

Chapter 7

Freeman’s house was very grand. Larger by far than the Winterbourne townhouse. Simon had rented it for him, for the whole season.

Freeman dismissed the footman who’d opened the door to them, telling the man to take himself off to bed. Then he led Lysander upstairs to his private apartments.

“I spend most all my time up here,” he said. “The house is far too large for one man. I don’t know what Simon was thinking of.”

“Don’t you?” Lysander prompted, his tone dry.

“I suppose I do,” Freeman sighed. “It’s an illustrious address. In truth, I’d’ve been as happy in a hotel.” He glanced at Lysander over his shoulder. “Though I must say I’m glad of the privacy this evening.”

When they reached the top of the second flight of stairs, Freeman turned off onto a narrow corridor.

“Here we are,” he said, opening a door and holding it open for Lysander to precede him.

Lysander walked into a comfortable gentleman’s sitting room. A few leather armchairs were grouped about a low table. On the table, on a silver tray, a crystal decanter of wine gleamed in the candlelight like a great ruby. 

Lysander stepped into the middle of the room and turned.

“This is nice.”

Freeman looked around as though that hadn’t occurred to him before now. Then he glanced at Lysander again and smiled. “Would you like some wine?”

Not really.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He watched as Freeman poured the wine, accepting the glass he offered with murmured thanks. He took an obligatory sip and stood there, in the middle of the room, unsure how to move things forward now.

He decided to be frank.

“May I ask you something?”

Freeman smiled. “Of course.”

“Have you done this before?”

Freeman studied him for several moments. “I have, yes,” he said. “Many times. Have you?”

Lysander’s face flushed so hard he was sure he must be scarlet. God, he was stupid! Why had he blurted out such a thing? Freeman was experienced, while he was near enough a virgin. This was humiliating.

Freeman saw his embarrassment. His expression softened with something—sympathy—that Lysander found unbearable, and he looked away, his pride smarting.

“Winterbourne—” Freeman said, then stepped closer, adding with gentle emphasis, “Lysander—”

Much as Lysander liked the sound of his given name in Freeman’s—Adam’s—mouth, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man as he answered his question. Staring at his feet, he forced himself to admit his lack of experience.

“I sucked a man off once. And there was a boy at school. We used to”—he mimed the familiar jerking motion with his hand—“together, I mean. That’s it. Oh, and I tupped a woman once. To try it.”

“Lysander, look at me.”

Burning with shame and longing, he did as he was bid, and there it was again. That look. That passionate, intense look that made Lysander feel like parched earth getting rain after a long drought.

“You could not please me more,” Adam said softly. “I count it a privilege to be chosen by you for this. To be allowed to give you this pleasure.” He smiled. “And it will be a pleasure, Lysander, of that you can be sure.”

He plucked Lysander’s glass from his hand and set it aside, then he reached for the buttons of Lysander’s coat.

“Let’s have this off.” 

***

ADAM TOOK HIS TIME undressing Lysander, removing this final layer between them.

He was a beautifully made young man. Straight, strong limbs and long, lean muscles. That frankly handsome face became truly devastating when he smiled his incomparable smile, and Adam loved the lock of golden hair that flopped endearingly over his forehead.

Naked, there were even more things to enjoy—his smooth chest and small, tight nipples, his pale, muscled arse, and the slender curve of his mouthwatering cock. More innocent things too. The high arches of his well-made feet. The sweet dip at the small of his back. The tender nape of his neck, so recently hidden by the mathematical precision of his cravat.

Adam wanted to worship all of him.

He removed his own clothes more quickly, ripping them off and tossing them aside, enjoying the frank appreciation in Lysander’s gaze even as he smiled at his own vanity.

At last they were both naked, and he took Lysander in his arms, pressing their bodies together, head to toe.

Lysander gasped. He opened his eyes wide. “Jesus. I’ve never—I feel like I’m going to spill now—”

Adam just smiled and dipped his head, touching their lips together in the lightest of kisses, inhaling the scent of the man—wine and pomade and the clean, good fragrance of his skin.

Lysander kissed him back, tentatively at first, touching the tip of his tongue to Adam’s mouth, then groaning when Adam parted his lips to allow him full entry. Growing bolder, he thrust his tongue into Adam’s mouth, and Adam met it with his own. It was a surrender and a rout, both. Push and pull and give and take. The most pleasurable of tussles. Parry, thrust and riposte.

Adam raised his hands to gently cup Lysander’s face as he explored the man’s mouth. He stroked the tender tissues of Lysander’s soft palate with his tongue, then drew back to feast again on his lips, his kisses now shallow, now deep, his fingertips drifting through the blunt ends of Lysander’s golden hair, messing it up thoroughly.

Canting his hips, he ground his cock against Lysander’s as best he could with his hands otherwise engaged. He desperately needed more contact, a harder press. The glancing strokes they were managing now were maddening him, and at last he dropped his hands to Lysander’s hips, pulling him in hard and driving their pricks together.

Lysander grunted and copied him, taking hold of Adam in the same way, his strong hands drifting further down to grip and knead at Adam’s arse.

Oh Christ, but this was going to be quick, far too quick, if Adam wasn’t careful.

He pulled back and grabbed Lysander’s hand. “Come on,” he said, and his voice was hoarse with lust and need. “Come to bed.”

He towed Lysander to the other side of the room—to the door that led to the master bedchamber—and drew him inside.

Urging Lysander towards the bed, he murmured, “Lie down. I want to feast on you.”

Lysander settled himself on his back, his eyes wide as he watched Adam crawl over him and press kisses to his thighs, hips and belly, circling in tighter and tighter till at last there was nothing left to do but slide his mouth down over Lysander’s beautiful cock.

At the first hot pull of his mouth, Lysander cried out, raising his fist to his mouth to muffle his groans as Adam worshipped him with licks and suckles and deep diving pulls. He teased him to the brink only to draw back, gripping Lysander’s ballocks firmly to stop him spilling, then going back in to kiss away the offence. He moved lower, tracing the tender skin between Lysander’s balls and his hole with teasing licks that made the man shudder and grunt. And then he went deeper still, pressing Lysander’s thighs apart with strong, determined hands, touching the very tip of his agile tongue to the impossibly tight entrance to Lysander’s body.

Lysander bucked against his hands. “Jesus, Adam—you can’t—”

Adam raised his head. Lysander had levered himself up onto his elbows, and his expression was a bewitching mix of shock and lust.

For a moment, Adam stared at him, arrested by the captivating sight of all that debauched innocence.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’ll like it. Let me.”

Lysander stared at for him a long moment, then he groaned and thudded back down to lie flat on the mattress, draping his arm over his face in helpless consent.

Adam smiled and bent his head again, this time licking Lysander’s twitching hole, then anointing the tender skin all around with kisses till Lysander was panting and reaching for his own cock, groaning with what sounded like real pain when Adam batted his hand away and took his ballocks in another firm grip.

“Do you want to come?” he asked lightly.

“Yes—oh, God, Adam, yes, please. It’ll take nothing at all.” He was babbling, his blue eyes wide and pleading and God, Adam loved seeing him like this. That perfect, buttoned-up English gentleman from this morning, clothes gone, all dignity gone, begging for release.

“The truth is, I’d like to fuck you,” Adam said quietly. “But only if you want it too. If you don’t, we can finish this another way.”

“Oh, but I do. I do, I do, I do! Adam, please—” Lysander canted his hips up, his cheekbones stained with the flush of sex, eyes dark with lust.

Adam leaned to the side of the bed, fetching the oil bottle out of a drawer and removing the stopper. Pouring a generous pool into his palm before setting it aside again.

Heedless of the linens, he rubbed the dripping oil into Lysander’s opening, pushing into the man’s tight channel with his fingers, gently stretching the muscle, watching in awe as his young lover groaned, accommodating him.

Christ, but he was an eager boy.

He worked Lysander with his fingers for long minutes, till the man was moaning and twisting in the linen sheets, his body open and welcoming.

Till Adam could resist him no longer.

He used the rest of the oil on his own neglected cock, briefly enjoying his own practiced touch before leaning forward and pushing Lysander’s legs back, exposing him shamelessly. He took a moment to enjoy that abandoned sight, then helplessly pressed forward, piercing Lysander’s hole with the thick head of his cock.

Lysander let out a growling sort of a yelp, a fascinating sound of mingled pain and pleasure that made Adam stop moving. He searched Lysander’s face for a clue to his thoughts, his body shaking with the effort of holding back when all he wanted to do was fuck like an animal.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered.

“Christ, no!” Lysander grabbed at his hips with desperate hands. “Fuck me, Adam. I’m so very close—”

Adam drove into Lysander’s body then, snarling with approval and lust. He’d only thrust a few times before Lysander was reaching his crisis. And God, but the boy was incoherent with pleasure, a babble of senseless words and more primitive sounds falling from his lips as his seed finally erupted from his ruddy shaft. The first surge of his spend went high, hitting his shoulder, making them both gasp out with laughter.

The rest of Lysander’s come pulsed out over his belly, and just the sight of it, that unmistakable evidence of his delight, was enough to send Adam flying too. He thrust hard, once, twice more, and then his vision was greying, pleasure suffusing every part of him as he spilled himself inside his lover.

His lover.

This man lying under him, stripped and exposed, just like Adam himself. The two of them, each unveiled to the other, right down to their very skins.

And Adam knew, right then, that he’d been wrong earlier, when he’d told Lysander he’d done this many times. Those other times had been something else entirely.

With Lysander, everything was new.

***

AFTERWARDS, LYSANDER felt like he couldn’t move. He watched as Adam rose and went to his dressing table, pouring water from the ewer into the bowl to wash himself. Watched as he returned to Lysander with a damp cloth to do the same for him, wiping the oil and semen from Lysander’s body with tender swipes.

What happened now? Was Lysander expected to dress and leave?

He was about to ask when Adam slid back into bed beside him and drew the bedcovers over them both, rendering the question redundant, for now at least.

Lysander shifted and turned so that he was facing Adam. He yawned, a great jaw-cracking yawn that made Adam smile.

“Tired?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“Sleep, then. You’re welcome to stay the night. I can assure you no one will disturb us.”

He spoke with the certainty of a rich man with well-trained servants.

“Thank you,” Lysander said, adding after a pause, “Strange, isn’t it, to think we were only introduced today? When I woke up this morning, I was not looking forward to the day ahead, but it has turned out . . . very well.”

“Yes, it has.” Adam smiled. “And what of tomorrow? What do you have planned for me? More afternoon calls? Driving in Hyde Park? Perhaps a rout or a musicale in the evening?”

His words were light, but Lysander heard the faint tension in them. The vaguest hint of dread.

“What would you like to do?” he asked.

For several long moments, Adam considered the question, then he said, “I would like to take you to Edgeley Park. I would like to hear what you have to say about it—what you think I should do with it.” He paused, then added, “We could go, too. We could pack our valises and be off. The wedding’s not for weeks. What do you say?”

Lysander found that his throat was suddenly aching. It was as though Adam had opened the door of his gilded cage and invited him to hop out. And as wonderful and exciting as that was, it was terrifying too.

The incipient excitement in Adam’s gaze dimmed a little. “You don’t have to—” he began.

It was that that decided him.

Before Adam could say another word, Lysander grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a swift, fierce kiss, releasing him just as quickly.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

And just like that, Adam’s smile was back, and his sherry-brown gaze was warm and affectionate, and a little wondering too.

“Would tomorrow be too soon?” he asked.

“No,” Lysander said. “Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.”

**

The End

Titles by Joanna Chambers

**

The Enlightenment Series

Provoked

Beguiled

Enlightened

Seasons Pass

Unnatural

Porthkennack Series (Riptide)

A Gathering Storm

Tribute Act

Other novel length titles

The Dream Alchemist

Unforgivable

The Lady’s Secret

With Annika Martin

Enemies Like You

Enemies with Benefits

Novellas and Short Stories

Humbug (A Christmas Tale)

Rest and Be Thankful (appeared in the Comfort and Joy anthology)

Introducing Mr. Winterbourne (appeared in the Another Place in Time anthology)

Mr. Perfect’s Christmas (appeared in the Wish Come True anthology)

Merry & Bright (collected holiday shorts)

You can find details of all my books at my website

Did you love Introducing Mr. Winterbourne? Then you should read Unnatural by Joanna Chambers!

Captain Iain Sinclair has looks, charm, military honours—even the favour of the king himself. He has everything—everything, that is, except the friendship of the one man whose good opinion he has ever cared for, scientist, James Hart.

James has loved Iain all his life, but after the last disastrous encounter between them, he vowed to accept no more crumbs from Iain’s table. If Iain cannot be the lover James wants, then James will have no more to do with him.

Disenchanted with his career, and miserable without James in his life, Iain decides to leave military service and embark upon a new career in India. Before he leaves England behind, though, he is determined to try one last time to reconcile with his dearest friend.

An invitation to a country house party from James’s sister provides the perfect opportunity to pin James down and force him to finally listen to Iain’s apology. But when Iain discovers that an apology is not enough—that James is not willing settle for less than a lover—he is forced to reconsider everything: his life, his future career, and most of all, his feelings for James.

This is a new edition of a book previously published by Samhain Publishing

Read more at Joanna Chambers’s site.

About the Author

Joanna Chambers always wanted to write. In between studying, finding a proper grown up job, getting married and having kids, she spent many hours staring at blank sheets of paper and chewing pens. That changed when she rediscovered her love of romance and found her muse. Joanna's muse likes red wine, coffee and won't let Joanna clean the house or watch television.

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Read more at Joanna Chambers’s site.